I'm the Loser of the Game (You Didn't Know You Were Playing)
by Yessica-N
Summary: Frisk sets the Monsters free and life continues as normal on the surface. Except Papyrus isn't exactly the same anymore. And neither is Flowey. Sometimes in trying to fix things, you only make them worse.
1. Chapter 1

**Me, writing an Undertale multi-chapter fic after all this time? More likely than you think.**

**Me, stealing the title out of a song from a fandom I'm not in? Also more likely than you think! (I couldn't help it, it just fit too well, ok)**

* * *

Everybody is gone.

Of course they are. Flowey had not expected them to stay, had he? Not when things finally worked out for them. Not when there was something better waiting for them up top.

He would be a moron to think otherwise.

And the worst part is that for the longest time solitude was all he really cared for. He didn't believe in karma, maybe he should know better really, but he had stopped messing with others long before the last human fell. The novelty worn down like the sheen of a coin kept in your pocket too long, the surface scratched and dull and not worth it anymore.

People were horribly predictable and Flowey did not care for them. Well, most of them anyway. Regardless of outliers though, it hardly seemed fair to him that he had to pay for it now.

Though even the bitter irony of his current situation did little to lessen the sting.

Something tight and painful, hard to think about and even harder to put into words. Not that there is anybody left to speak to. Not that there is any reason Flowey would even want to.

Not that he is lonely.

He ponders on it, while counting the days by the changing of the light, the red glow of a setting sun and the unbearable yellow shade of morning. He can see just a sliver of wavering sky and sometimes the stars. If only the smiley trashbag had known he could have seen them whenever he wanted to, if he had just been able to pull away from his self-absorbed apathy for a minute. If he hadn't been so selfishly preoccupied-

Flowey shakes his head, but the thought won't leave. He never liked Sans, always hated the way he would react to any change with stagnation. The kind of person who would settle for misery over improvement if it meant sticking to what he knows, the comfort of well-worn clothes and the familiar path trodden to nothingness. Somebody who would take the status quo to their grave.

It had irked him before. It had annoyed him, sure. But it hadn't _angered _him.

Flowey isn't even the one who should be angry about that. He has no resentment to spare, not for himself and certainly not on behalf of others, but Papyrus didn't seem to get angry about things so much as he got silently resigned, and that is arguably even worse. So that's why before, despite not feeling any anger, Flowey couldn't help being mad at Sans, if only for Papyrus' sake, and mostly because nobody else was filling that role.

But now he feels... something- Maybe he has gone too long without emotions to properly identify them anymore, too preoccupied now with the enigma of having them at all.

He ignores it, counting the days and nights and hoping that the kid will just reset already, though part of him doubts they will now that they have finally satisfied their morbid curiosity. He still silently hopes for it though, maybe that would make this go away, and then he could go back to not thinking about it at all.

Sometimes the status quo is better for everyone.

* * *

"Do you like what you see?"

It is an unfair question, he knows. They don't answer, the slight flush of their cheeks betraying their hurry in getting here. Flowey feels kind of bad, because they probably expected him to be waiting where they left him, like a little kid put in time out, idling in the corner until a parent called out to them that all was forgiven. Instead, he had left and gone back to the only place that still mattered and they had to run the entire length of the Underground, now nothing more than ghost country, to find him.

Their feet shuffle across the ground, crush the flowers there and Flowey frowns, annoyed.

"Pathetic, isn't it? Surely you have come to gloat."

They hesitate, not ill at ease but maybe slightly perturbed by his shortness. He is not happy to see them, but he has a sneaking suspicion the discomfort is mutual. When they start to sign the gestures are sharp, delivered with a certain urgency. "I need you to come with me."

"Oh, really?" Flowey says, practiced sarcasm dripping from his voice and he might not be able to deal with these new emotions yet, at least he always has petty indignation to fall back to. "Fancy that, you thinking of little old me all by myself here after what, three weeks? How kind."

They shake their head slightly, though he can tell they are not ashamed of their actions. And after all that happened Flowey can hardly blame them for leaving him to rot here, even just for a little while. They had never wanted to save him, they had wanted to save the person he used to be, but couldn't be anymore.

They had wanted to save Asriel.

"Something happened-" they tell him, hands still for a moment, hesitant in a way they hardly ever are. An antithesis to the determination he had come to associate with them. It isn't like them at all to second guess themselves. "There's something wrong."

Flowey can't help but laugh, and if he sounds spiteful he does not care. There is a lot inside him now, threatening to burst and if he doesn't let it out just a bit he might just self-destruct completely. He is angry and upset and really tired all of a sudden.

"Golly, that's really too bad for you but how about you ask your new fami-" He stops, and then there is sadness too, sharp and real, an after-image of something he thought he had long gotten over. Something he _had _gotten over but is now revived as if it had just happened, as if it had never left. "Why don't you ask your new 'friends' to help you. I'm sure they can fix whatever is amiss with your perfect happy ending."

They shake their head again, more seriously. "No. It's bad. I think I-" Their lip worries between their teeth. "I think I screwed up."

Flowey looks away, the tightness more pronounced than before. He wishes it would just fade again. "Well that's not for me to say, but everybody screws up eventually. It isn't like you to run away from the consequences, Frisk."

Their name seems to surprise them. Flowey hadn't realized he hasn't used it before. Not in his current form anyway. It isn't like him, but he is starting to doubt he _is _himself anymore.

But he isn't Asriel anymore either and that's where the problems arise.

They try to smile at him, fragile and scared and Flowey doesn't believe in karma but maybe he isn't the only one who regrets their actions. "I need your help," they tell him.

"Even if I wanted to help you, which I really don't, what makes you think I can help at all."

"It's about Papyrus."

It stops him dead in his tracks. He observes them carefully, looking for any dishonesty on their features. They are a tricky one, but not deceitful by nature and more importantly, they aren't Chara, closed off and hard to read. Frisk wears their emotions on their sleeve, often too much so but he doesn't think they would lie to him about this. Then again, if the goal was getting his attention, that name was the perfect means to an end and they both know it. If he cared to, Flowey would call it a weakness.

But that didn't mean he would forsake his dignity for it.

"Is that so? How convenient for you..." he hums, though there is some kind of odd discomfort prickling at the back of his mind already. A very distant part of himself might have called it worry. "... that your little crisis just so happens to concern the only person who manages to still hold some of my interest and not be a complete waste. But last I remember, Papyrus doesn't need me. Why don't you ask the trashbag for help?"

"I don't think Sans knows."

"Sans doesn't know anything." And if he sounds bitter he doesn't even care. "That's the entire point."

They kneel like they're about to plea and Flowey really doesn't think he can take that with a straight face. But they seem calm instead, like they already know he's on the brink of giving in. He waits.

"Papyrus needs help. You're his friend, right?"

At that moment it wells up again. But this time he does not need more than a second to identify what it is that clogs up his mind unpleasantly. Maybe because it is the last thing he remembers feeling, too long ago now to even be tangible anymore. But this self-loathing guilt he would recognize anywhere.

And more than anything else Flowey knows he can't bear to go through that all over again.

"Fine," he grumbles, stubbornly not looking at the way their face lights up with relief. "I guess I can come along then, but don't expect me to be able to fix anything."

* * *

He sits through their pleasantries with cold detachment. He had expected more resistance to him being here, had expected them to hate him maybe, but more likely they just didn't remember him properly. Your soul being violently ripped from your body and then unceremoniously shoved back in would do that to a person. Their dull confusion at his presence was followed by eager acceptance and it left him feeling hollow, for a second almost having him believe maybe he had been fooling himself after all.

The only one who Flowey thought would pose an actual problem isn't even paying attention anyway.

The surface is a first for them, a welcomed break from the rehearsed routines that long have grown stale for those who remember them and while Flowey knows Sans is probably as doubtful as him about the legitimacy of their promise, he couldn't deny everybody seemed happy and so did the kid.

And yes, even Papyrus.

Papyrus always seemed happy though, which rather complicated things. Frisk had filled him in on the way back, though it was hard for them to sign properly while grasping the flowerpot under one arm - when Flowey had said he wouldn't lose his dignity over this, clearly that had been a foregone conclusion. From what he could gather though Frisk was more than a little convinced that something was seriously wrong with Papyrus, but Flowey had told them he would have to see it to believe it.

So that's what he does, closely keeping an eye on Papyrus when they arrive at the house his mother now lives in with her most recent charge. When he was a kid his mother's kindness and the unwavering devotion she showed when it came to caring for others was something he admired and even imitated. After he had died the endless procession of vulnerable people she tried to protect just seemed stupid to him, but easily ignorable.

Now just watching her doting on her new child felt like ripping out a piece of himself and burying it.

Luckily he has something else to occupy himself with. He brushes off the myriad of questions aimed at him, reciting all the lies Frisk had told them about him. It is pretty obvious that they are more than a little skeptical of the hand-waved explanations, especially the good doctor looked like she was about to interject more than once but Alphys is too scared of confrontation to speak her mind and for once it will work to their advantage.

Papyrus greets him last, smiling like a fool and it makes Flowey wince, the guilt flaring up again at the back of his mind.

"I knew you would come back," he says, quietly and it's almost like a secret, a little promise just for the both of them. Flowey always forgets nobody ever believed Papyrus when he told them about him.

"I didn't go anywhere. You did," he answers, studying the grin on the other's face, the slight tilt of his body. Papyrus always was hard to read, but Flowey had a lifetime of practice. "Thanks for that by the way, was real fun down there all by my lonesome."

"Oh..." And for a split second, there's something there, a blink-and-you-miss-it moment that slips through your fingers like sand at the beach. Papyrus catches himself quickly though. "Indeed, I was quite sure you would be able to handle yourself nicely in the face of any adversity. And you being here proves that I was correct once more."

"You didn't worry about me because you thought I'd be able to take care of myself?"

Papyrus laughs lightly, a soft sound. "Something like that."

Flowey doesn't know what to respond to that and by the time he does Papyrus is gone, across the room with bouncy steps that seem too fast even for him. Sans is there, talking to Undyne and Flowey watches the way Papyrus approaches them, touches his brother's shoulder with one hand.

Sans looks up and smiles at him. Papyrus smiles back. His hand lingers even as the conversation moves on.

There is something seriously wrong with Papyrus. And Flowey is going to get to the bottom of it.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	2. Chapter 2

He comes around slowly, like waking from a dream.

His arm hurts, and Undyne is yelling indistinctly in the background - but that is nothing new. The pitch is way higher than he's used to, painfully so even, Papyrus doesn't know if that's actually true or if it's the ringing in his head that throws everything off-kilter.

He sits up, instinctively scanning the area for his brother and when he sees Sans, looking dazed but otherwise perfectly fine, he sighs. The others seem similarly disheveled but alive. Papyrus pops his arm back into its socket absentmindedly, only grinding his teeth a little at the sting. Maybe it would have been smarter for him to have _asked_ Flowey what exactly the details were of his big plan before agreeing to help carry it out, though the outcome had been predictable, to be honest.

After a few minutes - when the spinning of the room has slowed to an unpleasant swaying instead - he gets up, watching as Frisk fuzzes over the others and the small smile they force onto their face when the Queen gives them a similar treatment, healing every tiny scrape or shallow cut they might have gotten in the fight.

They seem upset about something and Papyrus makes a mental note to ask them about it later.

"Papyrus!" The word sounds strangled, forced out too tightly and he turns his attention to Sans, who has the kind of look on his face he doesn't often have but which Papyrus knows from experience is the prelude to something unpleasant. "What happened, are you alright?"

Coincidentally this is the moment Papyrus notices that his elbow is not supposed to bend the way it currently is bending.

"It's fine-" he says hurriedly, already forcing the broken limb into a better position, but Sans is kind of hovering at his side now with a frown on his face. "I'll fix it. You're not very good at healing magic anyway."

For some reason, those words only make Sans frown more, as well as something else that Papyrus can't quite place. Like somebody just slapped Sans in the face hard, though he's pretty sure he didn't do that at all.

"R-right-" Sans mutters, and Papyrus doesn't have time to respond when Frisk runs up to them instead. He waves them off just a little, using his magic to fix his broken arm properly now and they get that same looks on their face, though it's a sudden thing, and by the time he even notices they're already moving on.

Before he realizes it they're all staring at the sunset, at the light bright enough to blind them, bright enough to burn them. Undyne is still yelling as she sweeps Alphys up in her arms and even Asgore, ever the picture of dignified grace, looks just a little too fragile painted in the colors of dusk. Sans is grasping at his arm desperately, tightly, as if letting go would be waking up from what still feels like a daydream. He is looking at the clouds like they will drift away forever if he doesn't capture them in his gaze.

And Papyrus, who doesn't know what to feel except grateful that Sans has decided to subject his unharmed arm to this death grip.

Maybe it is the illusiveness of it all. The merging of all this time, all these lives, wasted but now paying off into one moment of ethereal beauty which makes everything seem too brittle for him to enjoy. If he touches this, if he lets it break beneath his fingertips, then it will be swept away even quicker. All this perfection will just melt away with the fading sunlight.

Undyne rushes down first, throwing him just a sparing glance and a big grin and it's wrong. It's wrong because it should be him speeding down the mountain, he's sure. It should be him carried away in the wave of excitement that he suddenly lacks, the prospect of their future laid bare before their feet. He should be saying something, but no words allow themselves to form, let alone be spoken.

There's nothing.

Papyrus clutches at his chest slowly, wondering why when everything is so perfect, it still feels like something vital is missing.

And the clouds drift ever further from their reach.

* * *

He waits for it. A few hours, a couple of days, nearly two weeks. Waiting for this something to return to him. Papyrus is a firm believer in the world being stubborn and everything turning out fine in the end. And if the world won't comply, Papyrus himself is plenty stubborn too.

Used to be there wasn't anything he wasn't able to fix if he just tried hard enough.

(Then there came something so frighteningly uncontrollable Papyrus had no choice but to admit that some things are beyond hard work or goodwill. It had been difficult, rewriting the axiom of his believes, but it had helped that the source of this inevitable power was nothing more than his best friend the first time, and a child the second)

And it isn't quite like he has abandoned the notion. Maybe he is too hard on Sans for being complacent and stuck in his ways – and lazy, but that is something else entirely - at one point he has to confront that if even dying several times won't change his mind about this, there isn't much else that could.

Still, when faced with another sleepless night spent pacing his new room, counting the tiles on the unfamiliar floors of their temporary house until he knows them by heart, Papyrus has come to a point where he couldn't deny it any longer.

He has no fucking clue how to fix this.

This profound emptiness that has decided to settle down inside him, swallowing up an important, crucial part of himself that Papyrus can't quite name but had always taken for granted. He knows a little of what the humans call shock and maybe that's what this is, he thinks, sitting down on his bed again.

Maybe he just needs more time to adjust to the new setting, the new world around them. Maybe it isn't so bad that he can't laugh at his brother's jokes or share in Undyne's excitement. Maybe it isn't so bad that the socks on the floor don't anger him like they used to or that thinking about certain things doesn't even make him sad anymore.

Maybe this numbness is fine, just for a short while.

Change is not supposed to be easy. He forces a practiced smile and leans back just a little bit. There are certain things that can be compensated for, he thinks, he has been doing so for ages. Why should this be any different?

On the other side of the room Sans shifts in his sleep, the blanket slipping off him and onto the floor and Papyrus knows he should get up and do something about that. He doesn't like it when Sans gets too uncomfortable. He wants to get up and do something. It's chilly tonight, the weather creeping steadily into autumn, and Sans shouldn't get cold.

If he _cared _at all, surely he would get up and do something?

But by the time morning comes and Sans wakes up, Papyrus is still sitting on the bed, staring at the blanket crumpled pathetically on the floor.

* * *

He practices it the next few days, eases into the act slowly. It's not similar enough to what he's used to for it to be natural. In fact, it is way harder than he could have ever foreseen. Everything he says and does feels too exaggerated, overacted like the way characters sometimes do in shows aimed at children where everything needs to be theatrical to be understood.

The universe seems to have mercy on him at least in that everybody is way too distracted by their efforts adjusting to the surface and starting their new lives to notice him acting strange. Asgore and Frisk in particular are busy with smoothing over the newly established contact between humans and monsters and while they asked Papyrus to help, apparently thinking his way with words and friendly demeanor would do wonders as an ambassador, he declines politely, citing his need to look after Sans as a reason.

At least it is somewhat true. Sans is hopeless in all things practical and if nothing else Papyrus can find purpose in taking care of the finer details of their moving houses, as well as helping the Queen and Alphys sort through the literal pounds of paperwork that come with mass migration.

All he knows how to do is go through the motions, hitting every beat of a song he doesn't know the words of anymore, music sheets full of notes he can't read but which he can sing right on tune, without anybody noticing.

He knows how to fall in step with Undyne, matching her enthusiasm with ease and loudly debating on the uses of the more obscure human technology now available to them. He can groan at his brother's puns, he can smile at the sight of the constellations and the changing of the colored leaves. He can do all of this because they are just actions, and no matter how empty it gets inside or how much it starts to feel like nothing is worth caring about, actions are just choices and choices are something he can make, even if he doesn't feel them.

Thought it wasn't even their own choices that led them here.

"I'm going back up the mountain," Frisk lets him know one sunny morning when it's just the two of them in the kitchen, nothing but an empty carton of milk on the table in front of them. Frisk is always up at the break of dawn and Papyrus hasn't slept at all.

He doesn't say anything but realizes he should. They're putting on their shoes, but having trouble with the laces. Papyrus help them tie them.

"Have you told the queen?" he asks eventually, because they are looking at him with a guarded expression, waiting for his response. Frisk shakes their head, their hair is a mess but Papyrus doesn't say anything about it either.

"I don't think mom will like it if I go alone." They hop off the chair when he's done tying their shoes, zipping up the jacket he didn't even notice they were wearing in between the signing. "But she knows I have to retrieve something important."

"Sure." He watches them wrap a scarf around their throat, tucking the ends into their jacket dutifully. Papyrus used to wonder how a child like them, still wearing striped sweaters and with bruises on their knees, could climb the mountain and free Monsterkind all on their own. Now he knows there are no other children like them. "I won't tell her."

They don't respond but hesitate in the doorway for just a moment. He watches them, elbows on the table and whispering in the back of his mind that his smile does not convince them as it should. He used to be good at these things, but at least back then he was pretending at something familiar, hiding the pieces of his thoughts better left unfound and showing only that which was insincere, but still contained in his memories. It was like convincing people an apple is still fresh despite its slowly rotting core. Now there is no apple at all, yet he still has to pretend that there is.

"Frisk," he calls out. The word sounds slightly awkward coming from him, but they had asked him not to call them human anymore. They were on the surface now, there were humans everywhere. Papyrus doesn't care about meeting them though. "Be careful, ok?"

They smile at him and wave as they leave the house, the door slamming shut with a resounding echo, and he can just catch a glimpse of them taking off down the street.

He never asked them why they're going, he realizes.

It doesn't help that with each passing day he starts doubting if the apple was even real in the first place.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	3. Chapter 3

It only takes a few more hours for Flowey to decide this whole operation was a bad idea.

The horrible thing though, the realization dawning on him slowly, is he can't exactly back out now, can he? Asking Frisk to simply carry him all the way back to the mountain and leave him there forever would be absurd and not only because it would mean going back to wasting his days in the empty ruins of their once home, soaked in memories and regrets. No, for a much less eloquent reason Flowey knows he can not back out now.

It would be _pathetic_ for him to do so.

He never cared much for what others thought of him and he still doesn't. Thank Asgore for small mercies and the fact that at least one vital part of himself still feels intact, some tiny thing that didn't change. But he cares for other things now, cares so fucking much it hurts. His parents, their grief evident in every single thing they do. Watching the way these idiots rejoiced in their new freedom, rejoiced at the world open and full of possibilities at their feet. All happiness and suffering of others bearing on him like through a kaleidoscope, multiplied tenfold.

So Flowey has two options now: either deal with these new emotions head-on or ignore them completely, probably meaning they'll come back to bite him in the ass later.

And wasn't Papyrus just the perfect excuse to justify picking the worse out of those two options?

"Well, something is up, I'll admit it," Flowey tells Frisk, who has taken the opportunity of being forced by Toriel to clean their room before dinner to have a private moment to discuss their predicament. "But I don't think anybody else noticed. I'm surprised you did, actually."

Frisk stalls for a moment, watching him with cautious eyes. Flowey thinks it is pretty tiring, not being trusted like this, not to mention tastelessly ironic seeing as they don't have the cleanest history to look back on themself. There is little use in convincing them he has better intentions this time, considering he isn't too sure about that himself yet.

Apathy is such a strong motivator to shake.

"I didn't," they sign eventually, sitting down in front of him. "I felt it. For a long time, I've always kn-"

"No explanations needed," he interrupts them automatically, maybe a bit of a knee-jerk reaction. As if it wasn't already annoying enough to struggle with all the new emotions, he has no time for ones long dead and buried. "Asriel was like that too."

They smile, amused. "I can't picture it."

The exaggeration of the gestures and their facial expression make it out to be a sarcastic statement – Chara had been quite fond of sarcasm so Flowey is very familiar with the nuance – but he pretends not to notice. "Me neither."

It had been quite helpful though, especially with one like Chara, who the world had hardened into regarding their weakest moments as failures. It had helped, when they did not want to talk, that Asriel could still tell the good days from the bad days at least somewhat and act accordingly. Do damage control.

Which, looking back on it now, was probably not something he should have been forced to deal with at that age.

"He's a good actor, I'll give him that," he says, shifting the subject back to familiar territory instead of bitter nostalgia. "But it's not doing him any favors now because he's only acting the way they think he should be acting and it shows."

Frisk raises an eyebrow, meaning they really hadn't noticed just as they said.

"He's overcorrecting. I don't know why, but it's creeping me out."

They consider this for a moment, but shrug eventually. Flowey doesn't want to mention that this is exactly what he means, that Papyrus has even them fooled so thoroughly that they can't see he isn't acting like his perfect, happy self anymore. He is acting even more perfect, even more happy, more more more- but indistinguishable from the role they had all forced him to take in their small-minded views of the world.

Papyrus never wanted to burden anybody with his own issues. And now they had come full circle, looped back around and mistaken this selflessness for truth that he had no burdens to begin with.

This oblivious act in the end only served to keep _others_ in the dark, but Flowey would be lying if he'd say it wasn't that paradox which had drawn him to Papyrus in the first place. He had found endless entertainment in prying at his secrets bit by bit, like a curious child chipping away at the gold-tone on an art piece to reveal the cracked surface underneath.

In the end, it had given Flowey little pleasure to watch this fake persona break down and the performance revealed, and he had killed Papyrus instead, disgusted by the futility of it all. This was before he knew about the pertaining memory thing-

He shakes his petals, and watches Frisk clean their room for a bit. Their idea of 'cleaning' seems to consist mostly of putting random junk in drawers haphazardly and pushing any stray mess under their bed. For all their determination, they weren't very fond of putting effort into things they didn't like doing, Flowey had noticed.

They turn to him suddenly and it startles him out of his empty thoughts. He can't recall what he had been thinking about the last few minutes, what he had been feeling, but he kind of misses it already.

They wave to get his attention. "Why don't we just ask him?"

"You can do that," he responds, "but Papyrus doesn't exactly have the best track record when it comes to telling people things he doesn't want known, especially concerning himself. And he's quite good at circular reasoning if you haven't noticed."

Sans could flaunt his fancy magic tricks all he wants, it was Papyrus who could make you want to die out of sheer annoyance when you were having a conversation that already lasted fifteen minutes and you still weren't any closer to getting an answer to your questions.

Flowey should know.

"Besides, I don't think he's _that _aware he's doing it badly," he adds. "Contrary to popular belief, he's too smart for that."

They push the last stack of papers, probably homework, into their backpack, crumpling them beyond recognition but looking proud of themself nonetheless, before sitting down again, paying full attention. "What do you mean?"

"You think a guy who has been practicing his whole life at pretending and nailed it pretty much flawlessly since forever would forget about the intricacies of the trade. Gee, feels like awfully convenient timing." He lets the words sink in before continuing. "No, some outside force has to throw him off balance first, catch him off guard enough to drop the ball. It happened before, I was the outside force that time."

And how beautiful that had been. Even with Papyrus being as adaptable as he was and adjusting to Flowey's secret a little too quick for comfort. But in that frail moment, Flowey had seen through Papyrus' facade too.

Frisk beams at him, the strange sort of confidence only a reckless 9-year-old has disgusting him beyond measure. "Then _you_ need to ask him," they sign simply as if any of this can ever be that simple.

He wonders, distantly and unattached from reason, if Chara was ever like this. When they fell, their innocence had already been tarnished by reality. Maybe they had never shared Asriel's idealistic optimism in the first place. Had seen all the ugliness the world had to offer and accepted the way it would always outbalance the beauty. It had killed them inside and then, eventually, it had killed them for real, Asriel being left with the corpse growing cold beneath his fingertips and the taste of regret blossoming in his throat.

Well, if nothing else this whole ordeal was making him awfully poetic.

"I'll ask him," he says, and for a moment their sincere expression doesn't even hurt that badly.

* * *

The opportunity doesn't come to him until a few days later. Things are very busy topside and Papyrus eagerly buries himself in a workload that would probably kill Sans if he so much as thought about it. More than anything else Flowey gets a distinct impression that Papyrus is avoiding... _something_. Not him, per se, in fact after their first awkward encounter Papyrus probably realized the faults behind his behavior and again altered course to come across as more convincing.

The problem being that Flowey only needed one moment of weakness and is determined not to let go now.

But broaching the subject with others around would still be a bad idea, not only because Papyrus is even more likely to deny anything is wrong than if Flowey just confronts him alone, also because he really doesn't want any of the others to meddle. Especially the Smiley Trashbag, who Flowey now feels even more than his regular dislike for. Sans never did Papyrus any favors, he wasn't going to start now.

It's somewhere around noon, Flowey is still getting used to the whole day-and-night thing on the surface. Monsters slept – well, most of them did. Papyrus once again happens to be an exception to the rule – but it was an artificial thing, dictated by clocks and regulations instead of the setting of the sun.

"What are these?" he asks, picking up a nearby piece of paper but not actually making an attempt to read it before Papyrus snatches it from him again.

"Applications," the skeleton answers dismissively, filling out form after form at an alarming speed. Papyrus has a tendency to get absorbed in his work. Flowey recalls the rock formation back in Snowdin and watching for days in abject horror as his only friend dedicated hours upon hours of meticulous work into painting it. Even back then, when Flowey was still telling himself he did not care for anyone or anything, it had left him with a vague sense of awe.

(He also remembers how nobody in town had really commented on it and has to stomp down feeling vicariously offended on Papyrus' behalf)

The pen pauses mid-stride for a moment. Papyrus smiles at him, not guilty at all but apologetically as if just noticing his uncharacteristic curtness, and Flowey can't disconnect the insincerity anymore. It's subtle, barely detectable yet the most obvious thing in the world to him, but now that he knows it's there and the seed has been planted, it's impossible for him not to perceive.

"Sorry," Papyrus says, and the way he says it is not right either. "I do believe these need to be sent in by the end of the week and as usual my lazy brother has been no help and everybody else is busy. They're applications for citizenship."

Right, the kid had promised no more resets. Flowey wonders if Papyrus felt a twinge of doubt at their words when first spoken, knowing how fragile their promises could be. He wonders if Papyrus would let that stop him from making the utmost of their time here regardless.

Probably not.

It's harder than he thought it would be. Slowly it dawns on him why, the awareness burning at the back of his mind but the need to go through with it brighter still. He spits it out, fights the urge to swallow the words. "Papyrus, is something wrong?"

Papyrus stares at him, lasting one long moment unguarded enough for it to ache at Flowey's absent heartstrings.

"That's a silly question," Papyrus answers, and the nonchalance air slipping into his voice is all wrong, stabs through Flowey like their knife once did, sharp and tangible. "What would be wrong?"

The memory is real and it burns even more vividly, scalds him from the inside out. It's been a while since Flowey felt fear, but now he isn't sure if it ever left. He hadn't wanted to die and he hadn't wanted any of this to happen. He hadn't wanted to hear the wrong answer.

And he is afraid.

What would he have done if Papyrus had said yes? What could he have done to rectify this?

What could he have done to rectify anything anymore?

"I don't know," he says.

Papyrus continues writing. "If you don't know then it doesn't matter. You can't fix what doesn't need to be fixed."

It happened in between the flowers. It happened at Chara's grave. It happened exactly at the same place where he had buried them, had left the petals stained with their blood and laid down next to them to turn to dust.

The first time Papyrus broke into pieces happened at the same place Asriel fractured.

And it shouldn't be significant. It shouldn't change a thing. But somehow it meant everything and all Flowey could see was the look on Papyrus' face then. He hadn't cried, he hadn't yelled or begged or gotten angry. He had opened his arms and smiled like a damn idiot when he told Flowey he remembered everything and forgave him anyway. Forgave him for revealing the ugly truth about them both.

That he still believed Flowey was a good person not despite it, but _because_ of it.

He had said that the first time and the second time and all the times after to a point where Flowey wasn't even listening to it anymore, but the candor of those words had stuck with him.

Maybe that's why it is such a frightening thing when he realizes Papyrus has never sounded so empty before.

"But-"

"Really..." Papyrus turns over the last paper with a dramatic flourish. Flowey hadn't noticed he was done, hadn't noticed he hadn't stopped once to look up at him since. "It doesn't matter, Flowey."

You can't fix what doesn't need to be fixed. And sometimes you can't fix what needs to be fixed either.

Papyrus smiles at him again and that too feels empty.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	4. Chapter 4

**Big ol' warning for this chapter: self-harm**

* * *

Memories are bizarre.

They are shaped in peculiar ways, irregular from person to person. Some things you remember clearly, like maybe if you close your mind you can be right there again, feeling the same, being the same, the thoughts lingering. But other things remain stubborn in their vagueness, haunting you in equal traces of familiarity and foreignness, impossible to hold.

And for Papyrus, neither is true.

Sans once told him, so long ago it is doubtful in itself if it ever happened, that for humans their memories solidify in sleep. He didn't know if monsters are like that too, but it would explain a lot.

Papyrus barely ever sleeps.

He doesn't remember anything from before Snowdin. He remembers too much from after, all streams of consciousness blurring into an unpleasant maelstrom in his head. He is not like Sans, who was meticulous in his laziness and kept diaries full of timelines and the events that happened in them. Those notebooks probably made it up to the surface with them, but if Papyrus ever saw them he would gladly burn them.

He is not like Frisk, who has the burden of every mistake carved into their veins. Who probably can still taste the ramifications of their choices burning in the back of their throat. A child can only carry so much sin without being exactly aware of what they're doing.

He is not like Flowey. Nobody is.

Papyrus _knows_ what happened. He doesn't sleep, doesn't dream, but he knows. He can't tell you when it happened, where it happened. He can't tell you the order in which it occurred or how many times it repeated.

If you want to know the exact number of times he has died you could ask Sans.

But Papyrus knows what happened.

And that's all he has to hold onto now. As it slips away gradually he tells himself that if he remembers it happened, it is real. And if it is real it matters.

"Hey Punk!" Undyne is holding the pot above her head upside down while the pasta is defying gravity, sticking stubbornly to the bottom. Holding on, holding on, still just holding on- "I don't think we're getting any better at this?"

"Not really..." he admits, swallows any further comments. He smiles, because it takes the sting out of the words he said and the ones he didn't, but that still didn't pry their way out of him. _Undyne was never much good at cooking. _Holding on.

She laughs in that way only she can, where it's kind of cynical and self-deprecating, but not sad. Papyrus knows what happened. He knows she was lying on their couch for days and screaming into a pillow when they couldn't find Alphys anywhere.

Undyne throws the pot down. The surface has made her restless. "Maybe we should try something else then? No more cooking and no more training." She stalks over to her piano, lets her fingers glide over the keys in one smooth rhythmic movement. "I'll teach you music instead."

The response comes a second too late to be natural but she wouldn't notice. "Wowie, you think I could learn that?"

"Of course, you'd be good at it. Maybe not the piano though? I think something else would fit you better." She seems to think it over for a moment but Papyrus knows. He knows what she is going to say because it already happened. "You'd freaking rock on the violin, though."

Part of him misses it, playing the violin. Sans brought it up sometimes, tentative questions whenever Papyrus was not feeling well and forgot to act the part of oblivious brother. One time he even bought one, gave it to Papyrus for that timeline's Giftmas and it had been so hard to pretend not to know the first thing about violins, holding the instrument upside down, plucking the strings so they produced the most heinous racket.

Later that night he had smashed it into a thousand pieces.

"I don't know, Undyne." He feigns uncertainty. "I never considered myself very violiny. What makes you think I would be good at it?" Holding on.

Her eyes are playful, her grin sharp, and she shrugs. "Just a hunch."

Papyrus knows what happened. He knows the songs she wrote for them by heart and the fact that they don't exist in this run means they're not real, no matter the echoes in her mind. What isn't real doesn't matter.

But other things surely did happen. He remembers them.

"How is the uh- paperwork thing going?" Sans asks him. Papyrus doesn't think he's genuinely interested. Papyrus thinks Sans is just trying to talk to him.

They haven't talked in days.

"It's all done, brother!" He shows Sans the empty table as if it just appeared out of thin air - as if Sans couldn't have noticed just by looking. "Ta-da!"

Sans kind of chuckles, kind of doesn't. "Guess you had it all under control."

"What about you?" he asks, because he cares about how Sans is doing too. Papyrus knows he cares about Sans because he knows he cared about him previously, remembers it, so it must be real. And if it is real it matters.

"Oh, about that- I got my letter back from the university and they told me if the citizenship thing went through I'd be good to go."

"What?!" Papyrus jumps up, nearly throws his chair to the ground in fake excitement and when he grabs Sans in both arms and hugs him like he used to it almost feels real again. Almost feels like it matters. Holding on. "Gosh, Sans I'm so happy for you!"

Sans pats him on the head until Papyrus sets him down again. "Really? I figured you'd be at least a little sad to see me go? It's close by but I will still be busy most days, you'll get bonely without me."

He huffs. "Honestly, Sans, I'm just glad to see you do anything productive, you lazybones."

He knows what happened. He remembers Sans was barely home to begin with. Leaving again – running away from the unknown – is just like him.

"That's more like it," Sans mutters, shaking his head as he steps out of reach before he can be caught in another spine crushing hug. "There's a lot of downtime too though, between trimesters. We could do something special during spring break? Go on a vacation or whatever?"

Papyrus knows what happened. He knows what vacations mean and knows the strangling force of being told your friends aren't dead when they are, he knows they were. Of being told they left you and went away without you, leaving you behind in a dead and ruinous kingdom as if that was any better, crushed beneath a weight you wouldn't be able to shake no matter how many timelines passed.

But maybe it didn't happen? Maybe it wasn't real? Maybe it didn't matter?

"Maybe if you earn it," he answers, grinning with a sideways glance.

Papyrus doesn't know if it happened. He can't remember anymore.

He doesn't sleep and he doesn't dream.

"Papyrus, is something wrong?" Flowey looking at him desperately. There's so much more in those eyes now, so much more emotion.

Papyrus isn't sure if they were brown before, can't remember.

"I told you that was a silly question, silly." Holding on, holding on, hold.

Flowey glares. At him, at the wall, at his reflection in the kettle on the table. The flowerpot means he can't run away anymore, he is confined to wherever people take him. "Why are you lying to me?"

Papyrus doesn't know if that happened. He doesn't know if it matters if it did. "I have never lied to you."

"Bullshit!" Flowey spits, rears back so hard it shakes the table. "You're so fucking full of it!" His voice low, laced with venom, laced with frustration. Laced with anger. Papyrus doesn't know if the anger used to be a part of it. Thinks maybe it never happened before and if it never happened it didn't matter- but he barely remembers.

"You've always liked to irritate me but this is something else, Papyrus. The results will be the same. I'll kill you!" Flowey says.

It's an empty threat. Papyrus can feel the hollowness of those words, how little Flowey means them. But Papyrus knows what happened. He knows the bones turned to dust by those vines, the words spoken between them before the inky black consumed him.

Despite everything else, which fades and crumbles, he knows the pain was real and it mattered. It is the clearest thing he can remember, the only thing. Holding on. "I never liked to irritate you, Flowey."

Flowey doesn't speak to him after that. He's probably upset but Papyrus doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore. Doesn't remember anything else.

That's probably around the time he realizes nothing matters.

It's comforting, in a way. And suffocating in a completely different way. If he doesn't remember then he will end up hurting them. If nothing is real he will end up hurting them. If nothing matters he will end up hurting them.

Not hurting them is all that still matters.

Papyrus knows what happens now.

He goes up to the bedroom he shares with Sans. Not his room, not the one back in Snowdin - which was real and mattered. He tries to collect in his memories all the things he brought back, all the things that he thought might be important enough to hold on to. There's the bed he used to love, the action figures he used to love, the battle body he used to love.

(There are Sans and Undyne and their little makeshift family, who he used to love, framed so perfectly in a picture they took right after coming to the surface)

Was any of it real? Did any of it matter?

There's something else he kept. Papyrus doesn't remember where he got it. Thinks maybe it used to belong to them.

The blade is not very sharp, nor very real. His ribcage feels empty, like there's some big void inside him and if he would just cut it out things would go back to how they were. Papyrus doesn't think he can do that.

He isn't scared, though.

But Papyrus knows what happened. He knows how it feels to die and it is not pleasant. Dying would mean Frisk would have to break their promise. He doesn't think that's right.

Instead, he puts the sharp edge against his ulna and waits. Nothing happens. He presses, softly at first and then growing firmer until the magic keeping his bones together gives way and turns into dust. Nothing happens. He moves the blade to the side quickly and the pain is blunt, more of an ache, not what he expected.

But it's real.

Four times is enough, dropping the knife onto the carpet between his knees spotted with dust. It hurts vaguely, it's not like the pulsing pain he remembers and that should concern him, though it settles him enough to think again, to remember the important bits pieced together from broken memories.

Of course he loves his room, loves his friends, loves Sans. He just needed to remember what was real. What mattered.

And if he forgets again he just needs the pain to remember again, bring his memories back into focus. Something solid to hold on to, cut into, hold And if he forgets again he just needs the pain to remember again, bring his memories back into focus. Something solid to hold on to, cut into, hold onto.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	5. Chapter 5

**I hope everybody is doing ok with the crazy shit going on in the world right now! I should have more time to write now, but mostly I just sleep...**

* * *

It's embarrassing for Flowey to admit he doesn't recall the names of all of Snowdin's residents.

I know I have killed you a few times before but what was your name again? It lingers somewhere in the air between them but he shakes it off, brushes it under the proverbial rug, which is something this place lacks. Maybe he has just become too used to dealing with Papyrus and Sans and Frisk – people who remember. Or even Alphys and Asgore, who don't remember but possess certain knowledge that means he doesn't need to explain the details or come clean completely.

If there's anything Flowey hadn't signed up for when coming to the surface, it was coming clean about what he has done.

Frisk doesn't expect it of him. They haven't told those who didn't already know about his former powers or what he did with them and as far as he's aware not about his real identity either. That last one in particular is a relief to him, a silent secret shared between the two of them and something bitter to hold onto.

But that still leaves him here, surrounded by non-strangers whose dust he has spilled before but he has no idea about who they are. After the citizenship went through, thanks in part to Papyrus' conscientious effort at finishing the paperwork, many monsters were eager to get their lives back on track despite the general public's still tepid cooperation. Grillby had no qualms about starting his business practices up again post-haste, setting up the first much needed monster-run establishment on the surface.

This is why Flowey finds himself in a too-crowded-for-comfort bar on a Saturday afternoon, sighing his way through asinine conversations between people he doesn't care about and drinking slightly sour beer. Frisk had thrown their hands in front of their mouth in mock shock at the sight, and he deplored his current lack of fingers or he could think of a gesture or two to serve them in return.

Monster drinks couldn't even get you drunk to begin with. Alcohol is a human thing and getting wasted requires certain biologies monsters inherently lack, existing of magic in physical shape, with anything they consume just reverting to such. They just borrowed some names.

But maybe if he drinks enough he can approximate something.

It would be more bearable than this, at least. From time to time someone takes pity on him, carting him from table to table for a change of scenery. At the start of the evening, many were eager to talk to him – the cover story he had concocted with Frisk about him being a shy recluse monster that lived somewhere in the Snowdin area but barely ever showed his face elicited a lot of questions – but his avoidant answers and apathetic grunts soon chased most curious ones away and he was left alone. That same cover story came in useful in explaining why he was so socially inept, probably.

As Flowey pretends to watch a handful of canine monsters play a game of cards that started out as poker but is by now slowly shifting into twenty-one, he keeps his eyes on the back of the room instead. At the bar, Sans is laying half onto the top of the counter, talking to Grillby with a bottle of ketchup in hand. Flowey doesn't know what they're talking about and frankly doesn't care. His interest lies solely in Papyrus, sitting on a stool beside the two and seemingly following the conversation.

Every once in a while he will say something that will make his brother tilt his head up and laugh and Papyrus gesticulates a little faster before dying down again, leaning away a fraction. Flowey must have seen the display repeat over and over a dozen times by now, if he didn't know any better he'd be thinking somebody was playing with the reset button again.

"Ace of diamonds!" one of the monsters at the table declares in a deep rumble, laying his cards right side up. The others bark in frustration but slide the chips over with minimal protest. Flowey glances at them for a moment.

"I saw you slide that ace out of your sleeve," he says. He didn't actually see that, most likely it didn't even happen, but if he doesn't do something interesting he'll probably die of boredom right now and maybe it will compel them to dump him on another table again, one with a better view of whatever Papyrus is getting at.

The dog monster makes a noise at him, something between a laugh and a growl. They all continue playing, ignoring his comment. "Would be pretty impressive considering I don't have sleeves."

Flowey looks back and sees this is true. Instead of responding, he turns around to stare at Papyrus again, who hasn't shifted on his seat an inch. It's almost impressive if it wasn't so damn unnerving.

"I saw you keep glancing in that direction. Anything interesting going on?"

Flowey doesn't want to answer, until he realizes the monster in question is the one Papyrus sometimes mentioned, Doggo. His eyes are trained on the cards still, keeping them close to his snout to make up for his poor vision, but shift to him for a moment when he talks, slightly unfocussed.

"How did you even know?" he asks. "I thought you couldn't see shit."

Doggo drops his cards, folding for the round, and shifts his attention completely onto him. "You move a lot."

Oh, right. That was a thing, wasn't it? Flowey tries to remember how often he killed Doggo, if it was easy as long as you can keep still.

"Don't worry about it-" he starts, but Doggo interrupts him with a low sound deep in his throat, baring his teeth a little.

"Why are you staring at him?"

It crosses Flowey's mind to play the fool, but he discards the idea almost instantly. He isn't Papyrus and when dealing with things unexplainable and concerning, it probably is best to dig where the gold vein is. That is to say: anybody who might know what they are talking about.

"Because he's stupid." He catches that gaze, narrows his eyes. "He's acting stupid."

Doggo turns around on his chair, one arm draped over the back of the seat. The dog treat clenched tightly between his jaws is inexplicably smoking and shifts to the side as he smirks around it. "That's one way to put it, sure."

"You noticed?" Flowey smothers the surprise in that question. Nobody noticed, _Sans_ didn't even notice. Frisk noticed but they are an anomaly.

Flowey noticed but he isn't sure what he is anymore.

Nobody else noticed. Skepticism clouds his thoughts, lingers to pull them back to the present, but there's a burst of hopeful anticipation he doesn't recognize that undeniably drowns it out.

"He's not moving as much," Doggo answers plainly as if this explains everything. "It's weird. I'm used to him being livelier, you know."

Maybe it does explain everything, Flowey thinks, latching onto the notion. Maybe they had been barking up the wrong tree, as ironic as that is? Focussing too much on those who were supposed to know Papyrus through and through but didn't know a damn thing. Those he would be already adept at deceiving. Or on himself, as if he wouldn't lie about everything.

But not the ones Papyrus wouldn't even take into consideration anymore, if he-

It sinks in heavily, a coin tossed down a well and clinking against the sides noisily multiple times before you finally hear that satisfying plop of metal disappearing into water, where it brakes its descent down to slow motion, taking several seconds to nestle into the slick at the bottom.

"Fuck..." he hisses beneath his breath, still at that clinking, still at that drop, bouncing around his mind, and then: "Shit!" with more frantic vigor.

The other canines are looking at them now. Apparently the round had progressed while they were talking and they were waiting for Doggo to join in again. Flowey ignores them, drags one vine across the table and Doggo watches with intent eyes, slitted pupils following his movement. "Did you-"

"Not now," Flowey interrupts him, eyes tracing the back of the room, coin clinking against the sides of the well still. Sans is alone and presumably asleep, judging by the angle of his skull smashed down on the countertop. Swiping the rest of the bar, Papyrus is nowhere to be found. Instead, Flowey sees Frisk, legs dangling off the couch of the booth they are sitting in. There's a pastel band-aid on their knee, their messy brown hair bouncing up and down as they gesture wildly.

Flowey remembers what he had clearly forgotten.

Metal hitting the water.

* * *

He wants to be wrong.

Frisk sets him down in the middle of the room and closes the door, locking it for good measure. Then, upon his request, the curtains are drawn closed as well. They left the lights turned off too, shrouding the room in the semi-darkness of dusk. It's hard to make out the concerned expression on their face, the pinch of their lips in a downward frown.

He didn't tell them yet because he wants to be wrong.

Kneeling in front of him, they wait patiently for him to explain the urgency in their leaving Grillby's. Toriel had driven them home, taking Frisk's excuse of suddenly feeling queasy at face value, despite the feeling of sickness clearing up as quickly as it had come once they jumped from the car. She would probably ask them about it later, but that could be dealt with then.

He just wants to be wrong first.

Something too akin to fear holds him back, makes him hesitate. It doesn't help that he hasn't done this in ages, in years, in decades, in centuries. The last time was when Chara was alive, sitting crosslegged on their bed, leaning back onto their knuckles, shirt sleeves hiked up to their elbows in an unusual display of vulnerability. Flowey remembers tracing the scars along their wrists with sudden clarity. Perhaps that had been the first time it found home inside him, how broken the world had made them.

"Now you have to show me something," they had said, the tilt of their voice high and excited.

And he had shown them, the glow of his soul reflecting in their dark eyes like stars.

The only time after that he tried to summon it had been one of the worst moments of his life, trying to conjure something solid from pure emptiness, finding the void inside him was vaster than he could have ever dreaded. He hadn't felt anything, not even an absence, but the consequences of his discovery were graspable from a theoretical standpoint.

Everything had been downhill from there on out.

Which is why he wants to be wrong.

He blinks a few times, tries to force his vision to steady, and there's a light where there should be none, radiating with soft pulses like a beat. The soul is small, an upside-down heart in pure white suspended in the air between them, shaking like a leaf.

Frisk gasps and Flowey makes it fade away quickly, snuffs out that shine desperately, though the warmth of it remains, beating against him in sluggish waves, inside him.

He wants to be wrong, but he isn't.

He has a soul again.

Distantly, he is aware of Frisk trying to sign something, scooting closer along the floor, but he can't concentrate enough to understand. The entire focal point of his world narrowed down into this sole moment, the reflection of his old soul in Chara's chocolate eyes and his new one in Frisk's brighter ones, polar opposites displayed as one. Dizziness overwhelms him, making everything swim in and out of focus. If he had a stomach surely he would be retching right now.

The coin sinks downward, ever so slowly, each pull of gravity stronger than the previous one. Until it settles at the bottom among particles of sand, unmovable now by the strongest current.

Flowey snaps out of it when he hears his name, his old one. Frisk is biting their bottom lip, there are tears on their lashes. They wipe at them with one hand, and their voice is raw and disused, but they force the word out anyway. "How?"

"I don't know." But even as he says it he knows he's wrong. He does know, doesn't he?

He has known all along.

"It never left," he mutters. Frisk stares at him with big eyes, trembling fingers clenched white-knuckled against the floor. Flowey knows they understand. "You took them back but his soul never left."

The flood of absorbing the entire Underground worth of souls had been utterly overwhelming, stuck inside him like glue, holding him together, artificial sinew and muscle and power. The aftermath had been even messier and short-lived, but he could feel its traces inside him.

He just hadn't been able to phantom what that meant.

Papyrus always was so fucking generous, wasn't he? He would give everything he had to make his friends happy.

And now he has.

Frisk pulls closer, their usual unreadable face caught in between desperation and determination, a horrible sight. "We have to tell him."

"No!" he screams. They jump at the rise in volume, and the tears have spilled over from the corners of their eyes now, tracking wetly against their cheeks. "No, we can't tell him."

Not when Flowey remembers what the revelation of being soulless can do to you with intense lucidness. Not when it almost destroyed him.

"Please." It comes out more like a sob, off-kilter and wrong. The raw emotion in his voice surprised himself. "Please, we can't-"

Not when it would destroy Papyrus.

Frisk nods, cups one shaky hand around the flowerpot. Flowey doesn't know how long they sit like that, waiting for the remaining sunlight to filter away and envelop the room in complete darkness.

* * *

**Soulless papyrus yaaaay! ****Good luck with your new soul flowey, it's gonna be a doozy**

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	6. Chapter 6

**All aboard the pain train!**

* * *

"You realize I know how to make a sandwich, right?"

Papyrus pauses for a moment, the knife hovering precariously over a slice of white bread spread thickly with ketchup. He glances at Sans. "Do you though?"

"You wound me," Sans says, one hand hovering over his chest, but he doesn't protest about Papyrus packing him lunch any further so Papyrus continues making the sandwich.

They didn't do this before. Papyrus would cook often, but Grillby's was quite literally around the corner, and Sans did not stick around for dinner or lunch. Or breakfast for that matter. Sans' idea of a midday snack was probably a bottle of ketchup and a hotdog (no bun, just the sausage) and the thought was appalling to Papyrus then and downright abhorrent now. So he went to the store and got the same brown paper bags he has seen Toriel use for Frisk and he's making Sans lunch.

It is all he _can _do really.

Because Sans is going to university for the first time, going off to become a physicist or an astronomer or maybe a stand-up comedian. Papyrus wasn't paying attention when he told him. But Sans is going away for the day and he won't be back until late and there will probably be a cafeteria but what if they didn't have anything good or healthy or something with ketchup? Papyrus has to make sure Sans has lunch or he would be a terrible brother.

Papyrus doesn't want to be a terrible brother. He's holding onto that.

"Thanks, bro." Sans takes the bag from him with one hand, like holding a nuclear bomb. "Have you even had breakfast yet?"

With a grimace, he dumps the disgusting ketchup covered knife into the sink. It smears red against the side of stainless steel. "Not yet. I'll have some after you're gone."

"Guess you're more nervous about this than me, huh?"

Papyrus isn't nervous about anything. But he nods absently, watching as Sans triple checks he has all the required books and papers with him. Sans never checks things, so it's a confounding sight, sparking a detached sense of pride in him. Not real pride, Papyrus doesn't have that anymore either. But there's rituals and traditions and things that are in your head more than in your heart.

Things such as making lunch so you can be a good brother.

Papyrus is very good at head stuff now.

So he can be proud of Sans – even as he isn't really – and wave him off when he steps outside, slamming the door like the lid on a coffin. He doesn't have breakfast, but he also didn't have dinner yesterday, so that's probably fine.

* * *

Undyne ends up getting him the violin. "Just for no reason," she says with a sudden sharpness to it. Papyrus holds it at arms length. The color of the wood is much lighter than the one he used to have, used to play, and it doesn't look as scratched up.

He's not sad about that. Not happy either. Not even melancholic.

It's just a violin.

"No reason?"

"You can give things to people with no reason, Punk!" Undyne declares with such confidence it almost staggers him. She's not angry – he has enough experience reading her face to know – but there's something lurking beneath the surface, like a shark turning lazy circles around a bleeding prey. Like she's waiting for something different. "I thought it might help."

Papyrus holds the violin closer, fingers curled around the neck carefully. The bow is still lying on the table. "Help?"

Undyne huffs and throws her hair over one shoulder in obvious agitation. "Shit, are you really going to make me say it?"

"Perhaps." Papyrus picks up the bow. It feels foreign in his hand. He isn't certain how long it has been since he last played. The strokes are hesitant, but aren't off-pitch.

"Look, Papyrus..." Undyne says, falling down into the nearest chair with a sigh. "You know I'm not good at these kinds of things, but you haven't exactly been yourself lately and yeah, this whole surface stuff is fucking scary for me too but-" She covers her ears at the sudden screech of the violin and curses under her breath again.

"What did you say?"

"Fuck, Paps, I think I'm bleeding from my brain now. I said I'm scared too."

That wasn't the part that mattered really. The part that mattered was the part about everything he was putting all this effort into (was working so hard at was worth still living for) falling apart. The part about still being who they needed him to be even if he wasn't-

"You're scared?" he hears himself ask, voice strangely light, unreal. It can easily be played off as surprise at her confession. The Captain of the Royal Guard wasn't supposed to be scared of anything ever.

But even more, it's like he's grasping onto a fleeting sensation, hands cupped around smoke that will dissipate no matter how tightly he squeezes. Papyrus doesn't feel scared, but he wants to know what it would be like if he did.

"Of course I'm scared. Everything about this is downright terrifying, we have no idea what we're doing. Not to mention Alphys and..." Undyne trails of there, embarrassed. They didn't often talk like this, during training. As a boss, Undyne operated on a strict 'actions first, words later' basis. But she isn't his boss anymore. He isn't in training. They are just friends now.

Whatever that means.

He keeps playing, keeping the strokes light so she can still talk. The repeated motions make it easier to hold on. "What about Alphys?"

"Alphys isn't good at communicating and neither am I and I'm scared I'll screw it up, you know? She's very smart and I'm not and I love her so much, I'm terrified of losing that. If I make a mistake."

"You are definitely going to make mistakes."

Undyne glares at him from under her side-swept bangs, and the corner of her mouth is pulled up in a smirk that only just reveals razor-sharp teeth. "Gee, thanks!"

Papyrus remembers vaguely how in awe he was at her. How grand she seemed, untouchable and strong and all the things he wanted to be for the world. He remembers vaguely thinking that maybe he could be good if he did good things.

"I mean, you're going to make mistakes because everybody makes mistakes." Papyrus stops playing for a moment to point the bow at her and Undyne looks like she has half a mind to snap the thing in two but doesn't. "Of all certainties in life, The Great Papyrus considers these the certaintest. But the true tragedy is letting these mistakes overcome you." Resuming a new song – one he played for her once when she was queen and lonelier than even he was with that crown upon his head.

It brings back some distant recollection of sadness that he doesn't experience anymore.

Her eyes widen, recognization almost on her face. "Papyrus-"

He stops again, arms limp, and smiles. "I'm not scared, because I also believe in the certainty that everything ends up where it should end up."

Undyne blinks a few times, he's not sure what emotion is in her eyes now. He can't know any of that anymore. But he knows her grin means he has done his job well, has done what he had to as a friend. The only thing he is still good for now, holding on.

"Whatever, Punk. You really know how to sell it. Maybe you should give life advice or something." She gets up with a grand gesture. "So, am I teaching you or not?" She takes a seat behind her piano and carefully lifts up the cover. Her piano is one of the only things Undyne handles with care.

"If you can keep up with me," he jokes back.

"Yeah, where did you learn that anyway."

Papyrus laughs and it's almost real, almost a thing he can touch. It's almost something that permeates the air and lingers as smoke should. But it isn't. "When we're done I shall regale thee with the greatest invention of human time. It's called 'youtube tutorials'."

"Alright, wisecrack."

They play together for a few hours, like old times or new times. Like times that happened once maybe. And Papyrus doesn't know how he felt about that then or how he should feel about it now.

But he knows Undyne doesn't talk about him acting unlike himself again for the rest of the day. And that means he did something right.

* * *

Sans isn't home yet when Papyrus gets there.

The house feels empty and dark. He closes the drapes, thinking maybe he'll see snow if he looks outside, but it's only fallen leaves and asphalt. Taking the violin out of its case, he goes through the different songs he composed in other timelines meticulously, seeing if he can recall them from memory alone.

He should probably write them down soon. There wasn't really much point to it, when he wasn't certain if all his hard work would go to waste when they went back in time anyway. But now he thinks he might want to.

At first, he concentrates on the ones he wrote for others. For Sans and Undyne and Toriel. Once, he wrote one for Asgore, though the old king never got to hear it. There are numerous ones he wrote for Flowey. His best friend used to watch him practice and complain about the racket he was making, without actually leaving as he could have.

When he runs out of those, he goes back to the ones he wrote for himself. There aren't as many – they're not as important – but playing each one almost makes it easy to know what he felt while composing them. Was he sad? Angry? Frustrated?

Was he ever happy?

Papyrus can't remember if he was ever happy.

He throws the violin onto the couch, realizing the way it bounces off and clatters onto the floor should spark _something_ but it doesn't. There's nothing.

No matter what he does there's still just nothing.

Sans leaving was nothing. Undyne grinning was nothing. The songs are nothing. The violin breaking would be nothing.

(Papyrus dying would be nothing)

He goes upstairs, opens the first drawer of his bedside table. Inside are a few books and crosswords and his old scarf and wrapped in the folds of the fabric, concealed where nobody can find it is the knife he has used a few times now. He doesn't sit down this time, just grabs the handle and puts the sharp edge against his arm.

Nothing.

He cuts three times in quick succession, not allowing much of a pause or hesitation between each self-inflicted wound. They're not deep, he's not pushing too hard, but it hurts and that's not nothing and so he waits until the sharpness subsides and he can think again. There's no feeling but there's pain instead and that's nearly the same if you don't think on it too long.

It fades quickly – like smoke – and he heals the cuts just as fast.

Wanting to put the knife back, Papyrus unravels the folds of the scarf again, and as he does watches grey dust trickle down from his arm. He looks at it dumbfounded for a moment, turning his ulna towards himself and the cuts are there, trickling broken-down magic. He thought he healed them?

He tries again.

Nothing.

The thing about holding smoke is that you can't. No matter how hard you squeeze, it will always dissipate, leaking from between your fingers to dissolve into thin air. But if you keep them shut, pressed together as firmly as you can manage, and don't open them again, the smoke could still be there. As long as you don't open your hands, it could still be there and you won't know until you take a look. Something like a cat and a box.

And maybe Papyrus had known. Maybe part of him had realized all along, but that part had shut itself down completely in favor of doing what's right and holding on. Holding on to smoke. No matter how much you didn't want to though, sooner or later you would have to take a look.

He sinks down onto his knees. The room is dark. Closing his eyes, it surges inside him, bringing back forth a sudden rush of dizziness. Papyrus forces himself through it and peeks from one socket.

Nothing.

Trying, again and again, growing more frantic with each failed attempt. He's not panicking. He's not scared. But he has to see.

Nothing.

Papyrus tries to summon his soul over and over and there's nothing.

He laughs then. It's not the right reaction but it's all he can muster. Because there is nothing and he has never been emptier and he thinks of Flowey, scathing and bitter and soulless. Flowey who was never much good at being anything except empty, unless he wasn't anymore and now Papyrus was the empty one and-

Oh.

Flowey, who was never much good at being anything except empty.

And Papyrus who believes everything ends up where it should end up.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	7. Chapter 7

He wants to rip it out.

It burns inside him, scorching, painful. What seemed only natural to ignore earlier had rapidly turned into an undeniable suffering – like a smudge on the edge of a window. It was so easy to look past it when you were staring outside, but as soon as you become aware of its presence, suddenly it became everything you could see, hovering at the edge of your peripheral vision.

And the soul was everything he could feel now.

It hurts. Not the sharp unexpected pain of outside influence. No, Asriel remembered dying. He remembered their blood staining his fur and the dust clinging to the air like snow. He remembered their face, eyes slightly open, dull brown irises and shadows cast by lashes and the unusual cold feel of their skin against him.

Their soul had already been gone and not much later, his own as well.

The one inside him now isn't his. Flowey isn't sure how he could tell, initially. Unlike human souls, monster souls all look identical. But he can feel it. A dull throbbing permeates his being whenever he tries to focus on it, hones in on the stray magic thrumming away inside him.

It's warm.

And really that's how he should have known it was Papyrus, even without the circumstances. It's always Papyrus in the end. When he was empty – soulless – when he couldn't bring himself to care for his mother's tears or his father's grief, it had been Papyrus who made him falter. Emotions were too hard for him to grasp back then, something he had experienced once but in such a tenuous way that it started to feel more like a dream than reality.

He knew the concepts of sadness, and anger, and joy. He knew they existed inside others and maybe at some point inside himself. But as time unwound around him and he frayed the edges of linear fabrics, each repeat made the idea more disconnected. In the end, it was getting simpler to doubt if they had existed in the first place. It was getting almost better to just imagine the giant trick everybody and his mind must have been playing on him.

Because if killing his own parents didn't spark anything, truly there must have been nothing there in the first place.

Flowey rapidly grew tired of pretending something was inside him that wasn't.

And Papyrus, who had all these things but kept them hidden.

"I was jealous," he tells Frisk. The room is still dark, the curtains revealing only the dim shine of a streetlight outside and in here he can almost imagine it's them. They really do look like each other, and for the first time since meeting them it illicit some hurt inside him.

For the first time since meeting them, Flowey misses Chara.

"I didn't feel anything, but I guess part of me was still bitter he had so much of what I lacked," he says.

Frisk stares at him, brow furrowed and he can practically already see their mind ticking away at solutions for what they perceive to be yet another challenge on their path. Asriel had never known the true meaning of determination, but Flowey knew all about it.

They rubbed at their face quickly, a nervous tick perhaps, and then signed with steady hands. "But _how_ did this happen?"

'How should I know' is what he wants to answer, finding solace in the newly regained rage burning in his chest. Sure, he had known annoyance before, but it had been the kind of pettiness a child feels when throwing a tantrum, not a real emotion but a reaction to what they deemed as the world treating them unfairly.

It hurts.

But before he can say it he already knows the answer. It's not an epiphany so much as it's just a prolonging of the dawning realization he had been experiencing since yesterday, but it still feels like the slow swelling of a flood. And if that had been the earthquake surely the tsunami was still to come.

"The souls..." And Frisk looks up with wide eyes, as if they already understood. "All the souls in the Underground. I took them but..." Guilt, that's a new one for Flowey. Asriel knew all about guilt probably. "I also thought you put them all back."

Frisk bites their lip, another bad habit. "I didn't _do _anything. I thought they went back on their own. They must have."

Flowey tries to remember how it felt right after but the whole experience has turned into a blur. All he recalls clearly is the sense of power flooding his veins as he absorbed life force not his own, both human and monster alike. In that suspended, fragile moment he had been neither. And then the sudden draining of everything leaving at once. "Well, clearly not all of them."

"Did he do it on purpose, then?"

He laughs, because despite everything they should really know better. Truly, this was just getting sad. "Gee, I'll let you take a guess. There's only one of those idiots foolish enough to do something this horribly selfless."

Frisk nods. "How?" they ask again.

"No clue, this hasn't exactly happened before. You'd have to ask some authority on soul physics." He falters there, because what he is going to suggest next sounds like a terrible idea even to himself. But it's either this or stick with the uncomfortable burning. It hurts. "You do know one, after all."

"We'll go see Alphys first thing in the morning then. I'll think of some excuse." Frisk adds a reassuring smile to the end, like they're trying to convince _him _this isn't some fucked up turn of events neither of them could have predicted.

He doesn't say anything.

But it hurts too much to sleep.

* * *

He dreams that night, for the first time in longer than he can name.

Maybe dreaming has to do with your soul. Maybe he just became too cynical to believe in anything beautiful anymore.

But that night he dreams of flowers. He dreams of Chara, smiling in that unguarded way Asriel was only able to pull out of them once or twice. They held his hand as they counted the petals and wished for better things for their family.

Really, they had loved their new family. And they loved them.

And for the first time, Flowey embraces the grief of losing a sibling.

* * *

Alphys looks nervous to see him.

He always suspected she knew – Alphys probably knows more than anybody would be able to guess and in that way she reminds him of Papyrus. But that's probably the only similarity and they are not here to discuss Flowey's creation. Her expression warps into one of perfect confusion when Frisk asks to speak privately instead. Says it is important.

Undyne isn't home. She's probably with Papyrus.

The house looks exactly like Flowey thought it would, a perfect dichotomy between order and chaos. Neat stacks of papers and carefully laid out furniture are intercut by empty cups of ramen and the occasional pizza box. The blanket on the couch is perfectly folded but the cushions are in disarray. It reminds him of his own house growing up.

"S-souls?" Alphys asks, as if she hasn't so much as heard of them before. She fidgets with an empty coffee cup on the table. Flowey still thinks it's weird to see her without the lab coat, though somehow she doesn't look as small anymore without it.

Part of him always felt a begrudging respect for the royal scientist.

Frisk doesn't beat around the bush. "Monster souls. I want to know more about them."

She doesn't ask why. Flowey knows Frisk has a lie ready and waiting – something about a school project perhaps. Alphys probably knows Frisk would lie too, so doesn't bother. "What exactly do you need to know?" she asks instead, leaving the cup alone for now.

Frisk shares a glance with him, the resoluteness on their face catching him off guard. He still can't shake the idea that they're making a horrible mistake. "I want to know what happens when a monster's soul leaves their body."

If the question came as a surprise to Alphys, she did a good job covering it up. Flowey can see she is thinking the answer over, and can't help but notice the nervous energy from earlier has completely evaporated. Fascinating, how the right subject matter could do that for Alphys.

After a few minutes he was starting to think she wouldn't answer, but then she looks up with a humorless smile. "Normally, they would die."

"Normally?" Flowey asks, and her eyes flit over to him for a brief second.

"I-I mean-" The nervousness is back with a vengeance. Flowey can probably guess why. "Monster souls can not sustain themselves like uh, like human souls would. They're made of magic, the body is just a container. Usually, when a monster dies... their soul dies."

"Usually?" Frisk inquires. He can tell they're doing their best to seem calm, but their leg bouncing against the table betrays their inner apprehension. Alphys must have noticed, but she's either choosing not to comment on it or is too lost in her own train of thought.

"There are exceptions to the rule, there are always exceptions..." Alphys mutters under her breathe. Then she looks up at them again. "But they're probably not important for you to know. They barely ever happen."

"But hypothetically speaking," Flowey cuts in before Frisk can respond, and he knows the sharpness of his voice unnerves her but he feels too hurried to think about it. "what _would_ happen to a monster without a soul."

"Well..." She trails off once again, hands clenched in front of her. Frisk clears their throat softly, and the sudden noise seems to snap her out of the contemplation. "The soul is a culmination of everything a monster is, their very essence given shape. Even if a monster could survive without it, they would lose all this magic keeping them in physical form. It would be a gradual process I'd imagine, but one which results in death eventually. Unless something else can be put in its place."

Frisk nods their head. "Like what?"

And Alphys looks right at Flowey when she says it. "Like determination." She hastily covers it up with a cough, rubbing her claws against each other. "O-or something else that uh, has the same properties, I guess. But determination would be one of the only substances I can think of that has proven to work." Another glance at Flowey. "In theory..."

There's a fleeting moment of awkward silence in which Flowey doesn't know what to say or do, except feel profoundly uncomfortable. He knows Alphys knew. But how _much _did she know? How far back? What about his parents-

It clouds his mind suddenly, the soul burning inside him.

He blinks back into reality just in time to see Frisk ask their next question. "What about the other way around? Can an empty monster receive a new soul?"

Alphys must have not expected this particular thread of speculation. Once again her anxiety seems momentarily forgotten by the scientific reasonings needed to consider a viable answer. Flowey knew before why Asgore had chosen her, but now he could also see why.

"Again: in theory, yes," she posits out loud, "but it would have to rely on you getting an intact monster soul from somewhere else and that just isn't feasible. I'd imagine it would have side effects we-"

Once again Flowey interrupts her mid-sentence. "What about soul rejection?"

"S-soul rejection?"

"We're talking theory right?" he adds. "Then let's say theoretically you could take a monster soul out of its body. Keep it intact for however long you need it, and then tried to put it back in. Could the body reject the soul."

Alphys shook her head immediately. "That's not possible," she says, all traces of hesitation suddenly gone again. Flowey had imagined this might be something she has encountered in her research to break the barrier of the Underground, but had not expected her to be so thorough as to have exhausted all avenues to a scientific certainty. "The body is made of the soul's magic. It can't reject its own soul without rejecting everything else."

Flowey wants to respond, but the words get caught behind thorns and snow.

A memory comes back to him, engulfs him, and if this isn't the tsunami they had been waiting for he doesn't know what it is. But at that moment it unfolds before him, the pages of a storybook torn out and puzzled back together, an image repressed.

He remembers killing Papyrus plenty of time. But he only now remembers Papyrus killing himself.

Not directly – never directly – but sometimes he would say it without words, express it in actions. And Flowey had shrugged it off, because he had not understood. He hadn't understood anything about Papyrus in the end. But Papyrus had smiled in a way that set him on edge, and brought the proverbial blade down on his neck many times.

He could not reject his own soul without rejecting everything else.

Without rejecting life itself.

Either the room started spinning, or Frisk is playing a cruel joke on him. It must not even be noon but suddenly it feels like the darkness of the shadows is creeping in on him, taking all heat with it and leaving him frozen. He can't see anything.

Dimly, he catches Frisk making gestures but he can't decipher them through the sudden rush of breathlessness. And he doesn't have lungs so it shouldn't even be a thing – instead, it is his own magic, tight and wound in on a foreign soul that burns inside him.

It hurts.

Frisk must have thanked Alphys, because she gives a short reply and then they're outside, the sun bright and burning, burning like the soul inside him. They get right around the street corner before Frisk puts him down, knees scraping against the pavement, getting dirt all over themself.

"Asriel!" They say his name with such urgency. He still can't get used to their voice. It sounds nothing like Chara. He has never missed Chara before but now their absence feels as painful as the soul does. "Asri-"

"Shut up!" he snaps and pushes them off with sudden vigor. They fall back onto their butt, hands raised slightly as if to show they're unarmed. "Shut up! Don't call me that!"

They swallow, crawl back onto their knees and use their hands to talk again. "Sorry."

Flowey wants to apologize too but he doesn't know what for. "We're back to square one," he says instead. "What do we do now?"

Frisk smiles. "We'll find some other way. We'll fix this. But first, let's go home, okay?"

He is pretty sure his home died with Chara.

And for the first time since waking up in a dimly lit cavern, confused and alone, without a body or soul, he is also aware of how much that hurts.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


End file.
